


Sherlock's Kink

by Teddy (I_am_lampy)



Series: Standalone Stories [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal douche, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Body Worship, Bondage, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Kink Negotiation, M/M, No Safeword, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Paddling, Rimming, Sub John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 17:52:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11340414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/Teddy
Summary: John gives up his body to Sherlock to be bound, Sherlock paints it with pain.(John still fights it. And loves the fight and loves Sherlock for not giving up.)





	Sherlock's Kink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiaoconnell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiaoconnell/gifts).



* * *

"John. Wake up, please. John!"

The voice is Sherlock's and it drags John out of a deep sleep.

"Whasamatter?" John asks, looking around blearily, waiting for his brain to locate the threat and adrenaline to be dumped into his bloodstream. But all he sees is Sherlock standing next to their bed in his camel colored dressing gown, looking both imperiously and hopefully down at John.

"Everything's fine, John. I want to play. Get cleaned up and be on your mark in twenty minutes."

John looks at his watch; it's four in the goddamn morning. John and Sherlock don't have a _true_ Dom/sub relationship. If John chooses, he can say _no_ , and roll over to go back to sleep.

"Uh," John mumbles, trying to get his mind to wake up.

"Yes or no are the only options, John," Sherlock says impatiently. "Nineteen minutes and twenty-one seconds."

John never says no.

He looks at his watch again as he throws back the covers, counts out eighteen minutes to give himself wiggle room, and then sets his goal at 4:27 a.m. He hurries into the bathroom to get started.

The first thing John does when he hits the bathroom is take a piss, then he washes his hands and brushes his teeth. He opens the cabinet next to the sink and takes out a shallow ceramic bowl and his anal douche kit. He fills the basin with warm water. Cleaning himself out is the part that takes the longest.

John puts the basin of warm water, the bulb and nozzle, and a two hundred mL tub of silicone gel on a clean towel laid out on the floor in front of the toilet. He checks his watch—fourteen minutes. He's not going to make the twenty-minute time constraint, but, then again, it's likely Sherlock didn't intend him to.

He sits down on the toilet seat and attaches the nozzle to the bulb and then unscrews the little tub of gel. At that moment, the bathroom door opens and Sherlock stands there, his dressing gown belted loosely. John can see his penis is already half hard.

"What?" John grumbles. He sits up from his bent over position, the little tub of gel in his hands forgotten.

"You should be halfway through this. You have twelve minutes, four seconds left, and you still have to take a shower."

"Yeah, well, I could get this done if you weren't standing there."

Sherlock comes all the way into the bathroom and picks up the basin of water and the douche bulb. He sets them both on a small table near the bathroom door well within his reach (but not John's). Then he holds out his hand for the little pot of gel. John automatically puts the tub and lid in his hand, but he keeps his eyes lowered. Sherlock teases him for being embarrassed about bodily functions. John argues it's about privacy, not shame. Sherlock is so eager to care for him from the beginning of a scene to the end that John won't deny him such a small thing. It doesn't make it any less embarrassing, though.

"I'll help you and dismiss the time requirement, John," Sherlock murmurs. "Now, move forward to the edge of the toilet seat, and then hands around your ankles, please."

John scoots forward to allow Sherlock access to his arse, and then bends over and grips his ankles with his hands. Sherlock reaches in the cabinet, pulls out a pair of vinyl gloves and pulls one onto his right hand. John knows Sherlock is watching him, already cataloguing the variables of John's physical condition—heart rate, respiration, the flush rising along his neck, the contraction and relaxation of various muscles of his body, the dilation and shrinking of his pupils, and probably a dozen other things John hasn't thought of.

Sherlock dips his fingers into the little pot of gel and scoops some out and then screws the lid on one handed. When he comes over, he puts his ungloved hand on John's neck and uses it to keep John in position. Then he pushes his lubed-up fingers between the crack of John's butt and circles his anus. John can't help the breathy moan that slips out of him. This part feels good.

"Mm," Sherlock murmurs. "I can feel it fluttering, wanting to open for me. I think I've trained your lovely little hole better than I've trained you."

Sherlock slips one of his lubed fingers partway inside John, just to the first knuckle and then rubs some lube around inside the second sphincter. John moans quietly. Sherlock stands up and pulls off that glove and drops it in the trash before pulling on the next one.

Even though he submits to Sherlock's ministrations, he doesn't _like_ knowing that Sherlock will be checking the water in the toilet for fecal matter. It's just so... _gross_. Yet Sherlock is consistently aroused by the action of cleaning John out.

He performs this duty _for_ John, thus taking the responsibility upon himself. It's one less thing for John to worry about. He doesn't have to guess if he's clean enough for what Sherlock has planned because Sherlock will clean him as much as he needs.

Taking responsibility out of John's hands is really what all their scenes are about, in a way. John spends so much of his time taking care of Sherlock, making sure he eats and sleeps, keeping track of his health, treating his injuries, _worrying_ about him.

In return, Sherlock offers John pain, reducing him to sensation, thus grounding him fully in his body, leaving his mind to float free from worry and responsibility.

John craves the pain, but Sherlock craves the need to bind him. Sherlock won't do the first without the latter and even though John _needs_ the pain, he rarely submits without a fight. He thrashes and shouts and pulls and pushes until he wears himself out, and Sherlock always, in the end, subdues him using nothing more than the patience to wait John out.

The resistance is part of what John needs, but once he's out of fight and down in subspace, he always wonders why he fought it in the first place. He always vows not to fight the next time. When Sherlock draws him carefully up from subspace, tearful and clinging to Sherlock, John always says _thank_ _you_ and _next time I won't fight you_.

Then the next time comes, and he's right back to fighting Sherlock's efforts to subdue him. And Sherlock is back to waiting for him to wear himself out.

John is dimly aware of Sherlock inserting the douche nozzle, telling John to hold in the water while he removes it and when to let go. He registers the flush of the toilet and then a repetition of the steps, but his mind is already drifting. He's already given up some of his control to Sherlock.

The more John reads about it on the Internet, the more he realizes how unusual they are. Other couples have safewords, other Doms give their submissive tasks and punish them when they fuck up. Sherlock never punishes John. There's never an order other than _move here, stand there_ . Sherlock _asks_ , "Will you submit to me?" If John says yes, then he's in until Sherlock lets him out again. Saying _no_ , or _stop_ , or _it hurts_ , or _please_ has no effect. He and Sherlock were already in deep before they began to learn how other people did it. They taught each other through trial after trial. Sherlock was uncertain at first, froze every time John said _stop_ or fought against him. John had to coax him back into the scene.

John relies on nothing more than absolute faith in Sherlock to give him as much as he needs and no more. A word can never replace a gut feeling, the total trust he has in Sherlock.

(Doesn't mean he goes down without a fight, though. The fight is part of what he needs. Sherlock knows this.).

Now that John knows there's such a thing as "bad BDSM etiquette" he knows that's what he and Sherlock are doing. He doesn't care. The only things they take away from research on bondage and pain are ideas. Sherlock has bought more gear than could possibly ever be used in one scene or even two or three scenes. Cuffs and binders, ball gags and leather bits, floggers, paddles, canes.

What they do is about love and respect and sex. It's about giving up and taking and then giving back.

Sherlock will wring two orgasms out of John before they're through. He'll take John to the edge of orgasm, then deny him. John will beg, will offer himself up in the most humiliating ways and Sherlock will smile softly and shake his head and pull him back from the edge again, leaving John furious and shaking. Then, when John has calmed, Sherlock will do it again.

John plays because he needs the lack of responsibility, because he loves Sherlock and wants to give himself over completely, because the orgasms leave him washed out physically and emotionally, and because the two of them don't know how to be vulnerable to each other without this.

It seems like a backwards way to establish intimacy with someone he'd already been having sex with for a year before they even started. Most people do it the other way around.

Sherlock and John are not, and never will be, _most people_.

Finally, Sherlock deems John clean enough. He wipes a pre-moistened towelette between John's cheeks and drops it in the toilet and flushes. He helps a slightly dazed John to his feet, holding onto him while turning on the shower taps.

"Did you brush your teeth?" Sherlock asks.

John nods. Sherlock grips his chin, the pads of his fingers crushing the skin of John's jaw against the bone underneath.

“Answer me in words, please.”

"Yes," John says, lifting his eyes to meet Sherlock's, the blue of his irises so dark and hazy. He looks so beautiful right now, soft and pliant. Sherlock brushes back his fringe.

“Ready to get in the shower?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes.”

They step into the shower, and Sherlock positions John under the water and wets his hair thoroughly. Then Sherlock picks up the liquid soap he buys from a woman in Stotfold and pours some in his hand. He lathers it up and then washes John's hair his blunt nails scrubbing and scraping over John's scalp. Then he rubs the flats of his fingertips in the wake of his nails. He does it repeatedly until John is humming in pleasure.

Sherlock has never had a partner this sensitive before. John reminds him often that it's _the love thing_. Because they love each other, they react stronger than they would with another partner.

Sherlock rinses John's hair, the gray and blonde and light brown all mixed together, such lovely, soft, fine hair. He won't shave John's face, not this morning. He's too eager to get started.

"Would you like to know what my plan is, John?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes," John says, eyes shimmering with pleasure.

Sherlock picks up the bar of handmade soap he also buys from a woman in Stotfold and lathers it up. The smell of mint and lemons that always permeates the bathroom gets stronger. The soap has strawberry seeds in it, giving it an exfoliating quality. John groans in pleasure as Sherlock rubs the scratchy, lathered bar over John's shoulders and down his chest, then around to his back while he tells John what he's going to do.

"I'll be spanking you with the bamboo spoon on your buttocks. You'll be on your stomach, sprawled on my outstretched legs, your head towards my feet.”

Sherlock reaches for the liquid soap again and pours some on his hands, lathering it up. He crouches down and cups John's testicles in his hands, washing each one with his fingertips. He rubs a single fingertip between each ball, and then around them. With two fingertips, he cleans John's perineum, stroking a bit more than necessary just to hear John's sighs and moans above him.

“Your wrists will be in cuffs straight up above your head.”

John is fully erect and Sherlock gives the rosy head of his prick a soft kiss before gliding soapy hands firmly down John's shaft, twisting his hands together around the base. He dips his fingertips into the wiry thatch at the base and scratches his fingers through it as he washes it.

"Hand me the showerhead, John, and please mind where you point it. I don't want water sprayed in my face."

John keeps it pointed down and then hands it to Sherlock who turns it on the "sprinkle" setting and then rinses John's cock and balls and gently pulls back his foreskin, washes off any soap trapped there, and then slides it back over the glans. He hands the showerhead back up to John, who docks it in the arm on the wall pipe.

Sherlock turns John around and steps behind him, allowing himself a moment to grind himself against John's backside. Sherlock has been hard since he walked in and saw John looking up from his seat on the toilet, flushing crimson.

"After we're done on the floor, I'll put on your ankle cuffs and you'll lay on the edge of the desk and then I'll attach your wrists to ankles and give you a dozen or two on the bottom of your buttocks and backs of your thighs."

"Mm," John mumbles and shivers above him.

Sherlock grins. He pours a coin sized bit of liquid soap on his hands and rubs them together and then he crouches down behind John and slides his hands over the globes of John's arse. His touch is soft at first, but then he begins to drag the flats of his fingertips against John's skin. He presses all five in, like he's trying to grab the meat of John's cheeks. He digs and squeezes, the palms of his hands gradually spiraling to the cleft of John's bottom. He pinches the fleshy muscles between the edge of his palm and his fingertips.

After he's spent an enjoyable amount of time kneading John's glutes, Sherlock gets a bit more of the liquid soap on his hands and rubs his hands together quickly. Then he slides his lathered hands between John's cheeks and parts them.

He can't help the shuddering groan that falls out of his mouth when he sees the source of his kink. The portal between _outside_ John and _inside_ John. It seems so arbitrary to him, that on this side of John's furled bud, Sherlock is _outside_ of John. But if he were to push just the tip of his finger into John's gorgeous hole, he would be _inside_ John.

Sherlock slides soapy fingertips along the ridges of flesh that burst outward from John's anus like the rays of an art deco sun. He smooths a lathered-up knuckle gently over the tight, muscular bud.

"The showerhead, please," Sherlock says, and waits while John hands it to him. He continues the description of their scene, “Finally, I'll use the tiny leather paddle for six smacks on your anus, just enough for it to get hot and slightly swollen. I prepared some ice cubes.”

Sherlock rinses over the inside of John's cheeks, making sure there's no soap clinging to the hairs or caught in between a fold of flesh. Plus, he just likes touching it, so the rinsing takes a little longer than what is, strictly speaking, necessary.

"Sherlock, you can worship my arse when we get out of the shower," John says affectionately.

"No bossing me!" Sherlock says and smacks the inside of John's cheek.

The water adds a unique note to the smack and the porcelain bath amplifies the sound of it. That sound!

"Oh," Sherlock articulates, the word one long breath. "That was absolutely _breathtaking_."

He needs to hear it again.

"John, hold yourself open, please."

John reaches back and gets his fingers hooked inside his cheeks and spreads them for Sherlock who takes a moment to place a kiss on the tips of John's fingers where they dig into his own flesh.

Sherlock smacks inside John's left cheek. _One! Two! Three! Four! Five!_ He doles out the dozen he had planned and then switches to the other cheek. It's always a bit more awkward because he does it with his left hand, but he goes after the other cheek no less enthusiastically because of it. A dozen smacks and all the while John is grunting above him and beginning to thrust into the empty air, moaning Sherlock's name.

" _Goddamn_ ," John groans. "That _hurts_."

And yet, he's spreading himself further open for Sherlock, his anus spasming maniacally. It's begging to be breached and possessed. Sherlock licks it and John groans so loudly that Sherlock imagines John's groan powering its way through the pipes, spreading out to London at large, the echo of his pleasure at the way Sherlock uses his tongue.

Sherlock cannot get enough of the way the water and the natural echoing chamber of the bathroom enhances his pleasure at spanking the tender skin inside John's cheeks. He gives each cheek another half dozen solid whacks and then licks and sucks at John's hole. John sounds absolutely obscene by this point. Sometimes Sherlock doesn't need a gag to take possession of John's voice, and oh, how precious he sounds. He's very aroused, his bollocks heavy and full below Sherlock's chin. He imagines John's balls pulling up, trying to reach for Sherlock's mouth, begging to be suckled and licked.

Sherlock indulges them, drawing first one and then the other gently into his mouth, swirling his tongue around each one and then against them. He knows John wants to let go of his arse cheeks so he can stroke himself, but he won't. Not without permission from Sherlock. It's the one thing John never fights him on. John's orgasm is _always_ in Sherlock's control.

Sherlock fondles John's testicles while coaxing John's hole open with his tongue. Then he presses his lips to the ridged muscle and sucks while pushing his tongue inside. John keens in response, his hips bucking forward instinctively and then, finding no friction, pressing back against Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock manages to get almost a full inch of his tongue inside John. He's painfully erect by the time he forces himself to stop.

Sherlock has a kink—he likes to _put things inside_ John's body.

Sherlock likes to put anal plugs made of glass and silicone. Ones with graduated widths and small ones with only a flanged base to keep John's body from sucking them in. He likes to put in futuristic stainless-steel vibrators with remote controls that he can use to turn John into a writhing, begging mess.

(Sherlock's favorite thing to put inside John is, of course, himself.)

"Time to get out, John. I fear we'll never leave the shower if we don't go now."

John relents his hold on his cheeks. His forehead is pressed against the tile wall of the shower and Sherlock must help him upright. He leans heavily against Sherlock, who turns the taps off. Sherlock towels them both dry. He cups John's face and waits for John's eyes to focus on him.

"John, get the bamboo spoon from our room and then kneel on your mark with it between your teeth."

John leaves the bathroom in wordless compliance. Sherlock takes the time alone to brush his teeth and smooth his hair into something manageable.

Sherlock goes into their bedroom and opens the trunk where they keep their gear. He pulls out what he needs for the scene. It will be a simple scene.

In a sense, all their scenes are simple in that they have only one goal. Sherlock reduces John to skin, on which he paints the cool hues of the color spectrum—pink, red, violet, blue-violet. He reduces John to nerves, which spark, burn, and sing. He reduces John to sensation and desire. It's a privilege to be allowed to do these things and witness what John becomes.

It's a good thing Sherlock sees it that way because John sure as hell makes him work for it.

John craves the pain, but hates the restraints. When Sherlock almost broke John's fingers during a paddling because John instinctively put his hand behind him to protect himself and instead of his arse, the paddle hit John's hand, they agreed restraints would be necessary if they were to continue. And once Sherlock restrained John's hands, he found that he wanted to restrain John's ankles and then to bind his arms. Then John began to fight the restraints, but Sherlock made it clear he wanted this just as much as John wanted the pain. So, they agreed. John gives up his body to Sherlock to be bound, Sherlock paints it with pain.

(John still fights it. And loves the fight and loves Sherlock for not giving up.)

What Sherlock does to John reflects the depth of Sherlock's love. Nobody else will ever know John like this, will ever see John bound and defenseless, colored with the marks of this thing he needs so badly. This belongs only to them. It's making love just as much as what they do in the shadowed quiet of their bedroom, when their bodies slide together slick with sweat and tacky with lube and semen. They wouldn't share this with anyone any more than they would share the details of their sex life.

What Sherlock does to John takes forethought, extensive planning, time. Sherlock must focus on John, must make John the center of his attention, his mind and hands holding the power to take John apart and put him back together. What they do when they play begins and ends with John.

In the kitchen, Sherlock takes four water bottles from the freezer. He put them there before he woke John up so they would be cold when Sherlock stops to hydrate him and smooth some cooling balm over his decorated skin before they go to bed. It's now ten to five so they're ice cold. He sets three on the shelf inside the refrigerator door. The fourth one he keeps out, uncaps, and fetches a straw, which he drops in the top of the bottle.

John has pulled back the carpet that covers his mark and is kneeling on it with the bamboo spoon in his mouth as Sherlock requested.

When they first discovered this part of their relationship, after they gave it a name, the first command Sherlock gave him was to paint the white line on the hardwood floor. For twenty-four hours, Sherlock kept the carpet pulled back so he could stare at it. It marked a new level of trust and openness in their relationship that left Sherlock's heart racing and his stomach fluttering whenever he caught a glimpse of it. It was a week before he dared to use it.

Every time Sherlock asks John to play (and no matter how he phrases it, it's always a request), he gets the same sense of soft wings in his belly that he got as he watched John on his knees in old pajama pants, his chest naked, painting that white line.

Looking at John now, the familiar whispering wings in his belly are beginning. John's eyes are shining with the desire to obey, to receive pleasure in the act of submission and pain. The black orbs of his pupils are growing as he watches Sherlock remove a tube of silicone lubricant, a bottle of all natural aloe vera gel, and a stainless steel remote controlled bullet vibrator, and set them on the desk.

Then Sherlock lays out on the floor the gear he chose for the scene. Other than the rope, every piece is custom made, a gift from Sherlock.

The length of black and pale blue silk rope.

The slip of soft black cotton, hemmed in white with a repeating pattern of their names they use as a blindfold.

The black leather wrist and ankle cuffs, detailed around each edge with John's name in silver etching.

The lightweight paddle for John's anus. The handle is leather cord wrapped in a single sheet of sterling silver. John's name is burned into the flat of the paddle, which is only fourteen centimeters wide. The whole thing is the size of a dinner fork and weighs roughly the same.

The black PVC vinyl tape. It looks like a roll of gaffer's tape, but it only sticks to itself and can be reused.

Finally, the bit. The bar itself, the part that goes into John's mouth, is black leather over a solid wood dowel. The O-rings at the edges are stainless steel. It buckles behind John's head.

John groans around the spoon in his teeth when he sees the bit. His entire face furrows in displeasure. John doesn't like it because he can't stop himself from drooling, because it steals his words, and because the metal O-rings that hold his mouth open are designed to hurt if he fights against it.

The last thing Sherlock lays down is the bamboo spoon, which he takes gently out of John's mouth.

"I don't want the bit," John says.

Sherlock sighs patiently. "You won't need it if you can stay quiet."

"Use the tape if you're worried about Mrs. Hudson hearing me. Not the bit, Sherlock. Please."

John's eyes look up at him with innocent pleading. Sherlock raises his eyebrows. John craves the fight as much as the pain. There's no fooling Sherlock.

"I won't use it unless you try to bite me."

While John remains kneeling, Sherlock buckles on his wrist cuffs. They're not locked together yet, which makes them just two very sexy leather bracelets. When Sherlock gets John down on his belly, he'll put John's wrists facing each other and then lock them together, not only binding John by the wrists, but also forcing his forearms together.

Sherlock knows John will readily accept the first round. After that, he can't know how John will react until they're in it. That's why he always brings the tape, the blindfold, and the bit.

Sherlock likes the bit because he loves the way John looks in it. He loves the defeat in John's eyes, the moment when he's completely given up the need to be strong, to be the protector, to be the one who takes care of every worry and responsibility he thinks Sherlock can't.

Looking at John now, Sherlock can't help but love him so utterly that it leaves him momentarily dizzy. By the very act of kneeling in front of Sherlock, John gives to Sherlock a worth he would never have given himself. 

They fit together, the two of them. They have since the moment they met at Bart's. Their edges are jagged and rough, and they grate against each other and yet—they always manage to fit, jagged edge to jagged edge. Teeth and claws.

Sherlock removes his dressing gown and lays it neatly over the back of John's chair then sits at the foot of it, using it as support for his back. He stretches his legs out flat in front of him.

"Come here, please, so I can buckle your cuffs together."

John kneels next to him, bows, and lifts his hands straight above his head, like he's reaching for something. Sherlock locks the D-rings together.

"Lie down on my legs. Your head should be between my ankles and your legs straddling my waist. Can you get into position without my help?"

"Yes," John says.

He can't, but they both know he won't admit it. John turns himself around on his knees and then carefully lifts his right knee over Sherlock's outstretched legs, until he's straddling Sherlock right above his shins. He squats down, bringing his elbows in and starts to lower himself, but it requires the use of his stomach muscles because he doesn't have his hands free to support himself.

Sherlock catches John with his legs, right before John would have pitched forward onto his face. He lowers John to the ground and lets him settle. John turns his face to the left and closes his eyes.

Sherlock picks up the spoon.

"Two dozen to begin with, and then four dozen more in increments of twelve."

That's the only warning John gets before Sherlock begins raining down the blows. The spoon is made of thick bamboo and slotted with four channels. It was originally a spoon John used for cooking. When they first began this part of their relationship, they didn't have any gear, so they made do with what they had around the house. John chose the spoon and it's been their favorite ever since.

The spoon makes a lovely _thwack_ on John's skin. Sherlock wields it lightly so that when it lands, it bounces slightly before Sherlock rears back up again. The individual impacts are mild, but after two or three dozen, every strike with the spoon layers more of a sting on already burning and oversensitive skin. After fifty or sixty, the pain is the equivalent of a dozen strikes with a leather strap.

For Sherlock, the joy of using the spoon is the way it paints John's skin a blush pink that eventually becomes a rosy red before morphing into the color of merlot. If the blows are landed with too much strength it leaves purple bruises and if that were Sherlock's goal, there are far better implements he can use, but that's not Sherlock's goal today. Today, Sherlock wants to decorate John's skin with layer after layer of fire until John can't help but fight back. Then Sherlock will restrain him further and go again.

The first six land without much reaction from John, except a tightening of his buttocks. Sherlock focuses on the fleshiest part of John's buttocks. This is the part of his arse that will receive the most attention and it's also the part that takes most of John's weight when he sits down.

When the scene is over, Sherlock will rub lidocaine cooled in the fridge over John's heated arse, clean him gently, and lay him down to sleep. (John always sleeps afterwards, even if it's the middle of the day. This is why Sherlock usually chooses the early hours of the morning or evening time to start. It gives John plenty of time to sleep off the endorphin crash.) He'll wipe away John's tears, kiss the corners of his mouth, tell him _I love you, you were perfect, don't apologize for crying, you look beautiful_ , and all the things he never would have thought he might say to a lover. He hands them out to John without thought. When John comes up, he's emotionally fragile. It's a dangerous time, because if he breaks John's trust even once, it could ruin everything they have. Sherlock takes his responsibility to John very seriously. John is the single most important component of his life. The work would never satisfy him again if he lost John.

The next six slaps of the spoon delivered all in the same place elicit a wince and a grunt of pain. Sherlock lands six on the other side and sees John's thigh muscles twitch with the urge to shift out of the way of the spoon. That makes twenty-four. The curves of John's cheeks are a dusty pink. Despite the number of strikes Sherlock tells John he'll give, Sherlock won't stop until John begins to fight, and then he'll restrain him and they'll go another round, and they'll keep doing that until John gives himself over completely.

Sherlock's fingertips plow furrows into the now smarting skin and John tries to shift away, groaning at the purposeful exacerbation of pain. Sherlock’s breath catches in appreciation. He lifts his fingers, smooths his hand over each side and then rains down twelve in a row on one cheek. John moans and uses his feet to try to push Sherlock's arms away. He almost succeeds in getting away so Sherlock stops and puts down the spoon.

"Do you need the ankle cuffs, John? I can tape your thighs together in this position, you know."

John settles and Sherlock picks the spoon up again. He bends forward and braces his left forearm on the back of John's knees and then leans his weight on it, keeping John pinned. He loses count of how many times he hits John with the bamboo spoon. He only stops when John's skin has turned a deep red. John is crying, which is unusual this early in the game. He must be in a great deal of pain, but if that were true, he's certainly showing remarkable self-control. Usually, Sherlock has to have restrained his arms and hobbled his legs before John reaches the point of tears.

The only other reason John would be crying is because he needs to come so badly that his entire focus has narrowed to that. Sherlock widens his legs, which also widens John's legs, giving him access to John's genitals. Sherlock slips his left hand into the dark space underneath and discovers the source of John's tears.

His cock is hard, the tip wet and, when Sherlock feels beneath him, he discovers a small pool of pre-ejaculate.

This is a new position for them, one they've never tried before, and it occurs to Sherlock that it must cause overwhelming sexual stimulation for John if he was able to remain so still, yet have achieved an emotional state he normally doesn't reach until Sherlock gives him the first orgasm.

At that point, the glans of John's penis will be engorged with so much blood, it will look like a bruise. The slit will be steadily oozing pre-ejaculate. John's body will be slick with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead, his face and chest blotchy. His eyes will plead for release, not just the need to come, but to be released from his bindings. Even then, it's only when Sherlock says they're finished that John is set free.

And then Sherlock makes him come, but only if Sherlock is inside him. Sometimes it's Sherlock's cock, sometimes his fingers, sometimes his tongue. But it's always, and only, Sherlock breaching John's body when John finally reaches his climax. Sherlock's orgasm is an afterthought and oftentimes John's orgasm is the catalyst for his own.

"Do you need to come, John?" Sherlock asks quietly.

" _Please_ ," is the whispered reply, but John doesn't open his eyes or lift his head.

Sherlock can do one of two things—he can slick up his fingers and bring John off with two fingers inside him and a hand around his cock. Or he can make him wait.

"Not yet, John," Sherlock says. "It's time to move to the next round."

John tries to pull himself up using his knees, but Sherlock captures his legs and pins them down. He buckles on the ankle cuffs while John is cursing and bucking beneath him and locks them together. John can inchworm his way up and over onto his back, but he knows that's the position Sherlock wants him in, so he lies still and panting on the floor. His tears have dried. He ruts against the carpet a few times, before giving up. He doesn't want to get off that way any more than Sherlock wants him to.

"I wanted you on the desk, but it looks like we'll have to do this on the floor."

Sherlock unwinds a coil of rope and loops it through the D-ring on both of John's ankle cuffs. He makes a knot and then rolls John onto his side. John jackknifes his body, so Sherlock lays himself over John and waits. John curses, and when he starts to get loud, Sherlock tells him to be quiet, or he'll get the bit. When John settles, he grabs the PVC tape and has it wrapped around John's mouth and taped in the back before he can react. And _then_ , he wraps it around John's eyes. The blindfold is more elegant, but form without function is empty and when he needs it done quickly, this is what he uses.

"I'm going to rope your wrists to your ankles so that the backs of your thighs are presenting. It will leave your anus exposed as well, which will make it easier to hit it with the mini-strap. I'm going to tape around your thighs below your erection, John, because I don't want your gorgeous cock to accidentally get hit.

"Will you submit to me?" Sherlock asks.

This is the closest they get to a safeword. If John says no, they'll stop, but it's not in John's control to ask the question in the first place.

John nods.

When Sherlock's finished, John's body makes a triangle, with his hips as the apex. He looks so gorgeous, Sherlock has to stroke himself a few times just to be able to continue. He wants John _now_ and he could take him like this, easily. He has before. He wouldn't even have to ask. The minute John knew what Sherlock was doing, he'd be trying to fuck himself on Sherlock's cock before Sherlock could even get him opened up.

But they're not done.

"Ten on the skin below your butt on each side and then five more on the backs of your thighs."

Sherlock is glad he wrapped tape around John's mouth because he can tell John is shouting behind the gag. He's trying to roll his body away, but he has no way to get leverage. Sherlock doesn't stop to give John a break in between the blows with the spoon and it's all over within a few minutes.

"We're done with the spoon," Sherlock says, breathing heavily.

He sits back on his heels for a minute, trying to catch his breath. Hitting someone repeatedly is arduous work, plus he's aroused. He lets them both take a break.

"Now for the mini-paddle," Sherlock says, picking it up.

John shouts behind his gag, his head shaking violently side to side. Sherlock ignores him for now, and spreads his cheeks a little wider, John moaning and twisting away from Sherlock's rough hands. Sherlock uses his knees to keep John's arse spread to expose his hole. He squirts a tiny bit of lube on one finger and spreads it around and over John's hole. At this, John moans obscenely behind the gag, pushing himself down against Sherlock's finger.

"Will you submit to me?" Sherlock asks.

There's a pause and then John nods.

"Five in a row and then we're done."

The mini-paddle must be wielded with a steady hand. It must snap enough to cause the area to smart, but not hard enough to bruise or cause swelling. Sherlock has ice cubes that he'll get when they're done. He'll slip one inside John and lick it up and suck it out as it melts. It's filthy and obscene and he loves it and when he's done, John will be almost completely under.

Sherlock lands each strike with a minute flick of his wrist. He does it quickly and it's done within a minute. John's hole is beautiful, rosy red and fluttering. Sherlock wants to lick it, but won't. It's so sensitive right now that the taste buds on Sherlock's tongue would feel like sandpaper.

Instead he leans forward and pulls the tape off John's eyes and then off his mouth. As soon as his eyes open, John begins to cry, his tears falling in slow but unending drops. He smiles weakly at Sherlock.

"Hi, there," Sherlock whispers. "Let's get you out of these restraints and then we'll get the ice cubes and lie down together."

John nods. He's not all the way under, but he's close.

Sherlock quickly and efficiently goes through the process of unknotting rope and unbuckling restraints. He gently lowers John's legs to the ground, hissing in sympathy when John sucks in a sharp breath as his beaten skin makes contact with the floor. He unwraps the tape from around John's thighs. He kisses the head of John's cock and swirls the glans around his tongue a few times, until John is thrusting up viciously into his mouth. Then he holds John's hips against the floor and says, gently, _no_. John growls in frustration, but obeys.

Sherlock removes everything but John's wrist cuffs. He'll need those when they finally take this into the bedroom.

* * *

 


End file.
